


Possessed by a Demon

by Kevnis



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Crowley, Protective Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 21:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21483337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kevnis/pseuds/Kevnis
Summary: Short ficlet about jealousy: an easy sensation to fall into when you can sense the desires of others, aimed towards something - or someone - you're rather protective of.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 150





	Possessed by a Demon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ezra554](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezra554/gifts).

The legions of Hell were vast and varied, and as Crowley would attest, each member of them was almost, or equally, as unique as any member of the human race. The word “demonic” therefore covered such a wide range of appearances, actions, thoughts, emotions, and behaviours as to be functionally non-descriptive. There were very few things one could call “demonic” without having to acknowledge several exceptions or even contradictory examples.

That being said, there are some generalisations that, while perhaps not universally true, could be made relatively safely.

For example, Crowley had the demonic ability to sense desire. If someone wanted something badly enough in his vicinity, he could feel the pressure of it encroaching on his otherworldly vision. The vast majority of them could do it, since leading citizens of Earth into temptation was a significant part of the job description after all. Many demons had certain specialties or talents, or experienced this special sixth (or seventh, or eighth, or ninth, et cetera...) sense to a greater or lesser extent than others. But, overall, sensing desire in humans was an ability so common it was taken for granted.

Crowley was weaker at it than most. He could list several friends and acquaintances who excelled him in that category. And he was more or less highly specialised to envy, being naturally far more sensitive to that than any other form of want.

But, after a couple thousand years or so on Earth, he had begin to develop a slight sensitivity to lust as well. He didn’t know why. Perhaps he could have ventured a guess, if he had been even remotely willing to admit it to himself at the time. Even now, it wasn’t something he thought about.

And though it had grown through the centuries, it was still far from his greatest strength. But sure enough, it was there, a sense like any other. At times, just as intrusive and unpleasant as the rest could be.

The talent only worked on humans, of course. Some of the most gifted demons could sense it from their own kind, as well, but only if the subject of the wanting was less skilled at hiding their emotions than the empath was at feeling or uncovering them. However, it would not under any circumstances pick up on the wants of angels.

Or at least, Crowley’s capacity for it had never been able to pick up on the wants of a particular angel.

That didn’t matter, in the long run. Crowley didn’t need any superhuman senses to feel the angel’s lust, not now. The mortal senses of his physical body were more than enough. He could sense lust in the hollow look of hunger he would glimpse in the angel’s eyes, he could see it in the flush of his cheeks and hear it in the quickening or utter stoppage of his breaths. Aziraphale’s body and his talked to each other in the beautiful, carnal way of humans, and that was all they needed.

No, what bothered Crowley was not what he _ didn’t _ sense from his lover, but rather what he _ did _ sense, on occasion, from the humans around them. It likely shouldn’t affect him as much as it did, he knew. After all, how could he blame them? Aziraphale was beautiful, he was gorgeous, he was so undeniably tempting. Of course people should find him attractive.

But it never sat well with Crowley.

And yes, of course the flashes of lust he would sometimes sense from humans paled to insignificance compared to what he knew he himself had the capacity to feel. He had yearned, he had fantasised, he had craved; for centuries, for _ millennia _. He had known desire so strong it hurt him. But it was different, because all the while he had known - and he still felt it, deep in the pit of his stomach, every time the angel reciprocated a glance or a touch or a moan - that he wasn’t worthy of the angel. That Aziraphale, pure and radiant, coy and insufferable, sinful and perfect, deserved so much more than to be the object of a demon’s love.

But if Aziraphale deserved better than Crowley, then he certainly deserved so much better than the base sort of humans who arrogantly wanted for him like Icarus longing for the sun.

It was rare that he cursed them. Most of the time, he was able to stretch his self-control to its limits and simply lay claim to his angel as a deterrent.

They were walking through London’s Soho hand in hand, strolling comfortably through routes they both knew well on a casual outing that left them open to any temptation that might catch their eye. At some point in the winding journey, Aziraphale’s hand had found Crowley’s in that shy, subtle way it often did, and Crowley had gripped it tight and thanked his lucky binary stars that his cold blood didn’t allow him to blush too visibly.

Being therefore as outwardly a couple as they were, Crowley was disappointed and greatly irked - though unfortunately, not terribly surprised - to feel the distinct impression of desire prickle at the back of his neck. His hackles raised in turn, and he threw a glance over his shoulder to find the human who dared to push their covetous gaze upon Aziraphale this time. He located them almost immediately, took note of where their eyes fell, of where he could feel the heat of their want emanating the strongest. Oh, this one must be a glutton for punishment.

His hand, still somewhat reluctantly, relinquished Aziraphale’s with a reassuring squeeze. It garnered him a glance of innocent, concerned curiosity from the angel, but he pretended to ignore it as his arm encircled Aziraphale’s waist and tugged him, perhaps a little roughly, closer. Just for good measure, and because he didn’t feel the stranger’s gaze slide immediately off of his dear one, Crowley let his arm slip down. His hand glided first over the curve of Aziraphale’s hip, then cupped with a subtle wink of hunger at the contour of his rear, before returning to the hip and tightening his hold there. This earned him another questioning glance from Aziraphale, but in a smooth response Crowley pulled his sunglasses down his nose, enough to shoot a steely, meaningful look over their edge back at the angel.

“Ah,” Aziraphale mouthed, then pursed his lips and returned his eyes due forward. He was well acquainted with, and accustomed to, Crowley’s sensitivities at this point, as well as his habits for resolving them.

This human didn’t give up easy. Crowley could still feel their eyes, feel their want, on Aziraphale even now. He wished he could brush it off the angel’s back like a bothersome insect, wipe it off his coat like a smudge of dirt. If only it were that easy, that simple, to cleanse him of this unwelcome infectant. It isn’t. But what he does instead, he must admit, isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale smoothly aside, removing them both politely from the thick of London’s foot traffic. And then, in the same motion, but a touch more impolitely, he backed Aziraphale against the wall of the nearest building. The angel’s eyes barely had time to widen with the shock of it before Crowley’s lips connected with his - and then, just as suddenly, they were closing again. Crowley gripped one hand around his hip; the other was clutching his shirt collar most indelicately, and both served to pull Aziraphale closer, tighter, more inseparable. Aziraphale, though surrendering to the controlling touch, though opening his mouth at the pliant bidding of Crowley’s tongue, was terribly self-conscious. They were in _ public _ , after all, for Go- for Heav- for _ goodness’ _ sake. But then the serpentine tongue, long and dextrous and less than human body temperature, found his. Then Crowley relinquished his stiff grip on his hip and his collar and his hands, softer now, moved up to cup under his jaw. And just like that, everything else faded away. If people saw, let them see, Aziraphale thought. He was _ Crowley’s _. Let the whole world know, if they wanted to, if they cared.

Aziraphale kissed him back. His hands found the familiar handholds of Crowley’s hips, cradled them gently. His lips moved, his tongue moved, he forgot how to breathe against Crowley’s mouth. Together on the edge of the sidewalk, they devoured each other, drank in each other’s taste and feel. They kissed, long and slow and loving, like real people. And Aziraphale held on just a moment longer when, eventually, Crowley separated them.

“Well.” Aziraphale punctuated, straightening his collar and jacket and dusting himself off, suddenly donning his prim and proper veneer again. “Well, are you satisfied?”

Crowley grinned, offered his hand. Aziraphale took it, and they resumed their walk.

“Oh I’ve been satisfied for a while, angel,” Crowley replied, “Your admirer walked right past us. The rest of it - well, that was just for me.”

His smile was sharp and crooked with a gloating self-satisfaction, and behind his dark shades Aziraphale could swear he saw him flash a wink.

“Why I _ never _!” Aziraphale scolded, which only broadened Crowley’s smile all the more.

“Hush, angel.” He retorted with a hissing slip of the tongue, “You like it, I know you do. And don’t argue, or I’ll do it again.”

Aziraphale fell silent. He didn’t much like the idea of being proven wrong, or of proving his adversary right. At a loss for any other action to take, he allowed autopilot to slip his hand into the one that Crowley offered him, and with a slow trepidation they resumed the progress of their walk.

Crowley would, of course, pay for this. He would pay quite dearly. But Aziraphale was not as cruel as he was. His retribution would not be public. It would be very private, only wreaked upon him tonight, when they were tucked into the seclusion of the bed they shared. Then, only then, would Crowley be exposed to his own weapon of the helpless pleasure of being owned.


End file.
